


A Hundred Lonely Christmases

by Mycrofts_Favorite



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandonment, Chrstmas, Fluff, I Love You, Loneliness, M/M, Soldier!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:44:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2489900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mycrofts_Favorite/pseuds/Mycrofts_Favorite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have lived a life of lonely Christmases, just so they could find each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Christmas for Two/Running Away

"Mikey, when will Mummy and Daddy be home?" A 4-year-old Sherlock sat in front of the fireplace, petting his Irish setter gingerly, while his 13-year-old brother sat in an armchair with the evening newspaper. 

Mycroft stood and walked over to the tall evergreen by the window, adjusting one of the blown-glass ornaments. "I don't know, Sherlock. They said they'd be home for Christmas, but I haven't heard anything new." He sighed. "Well, let's go get you ready for bed, okay?" Sherlock stood and grasped his brother's hand and followed him towards his own room. Redbeard trotted along a half pace behind. 

Sherlock picked out his favorite pirate pajamas to wear and his brother helped him put them on. "Can I have ha-chalet?" 

"Of course," Mycroft smiled at the four-year-old. The brothers walked to the kitchen, once again followed by the large dog. Sherlock climbed into one of the kitchen chairs while Mycroft walked to the fridge. Once he'd made it, he handed Sherlock a mug of hot chocolate and kept one for himself. Redbeard sat obediently by the dangling feet of the younger boy. 

"Mummy and Daddy aren't coming home for Christmas, are they," Sherlock said, disappointed. 

"I don't know, Sherlock. I don't know." 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

"I don't care," John's mother shouted. "There's another woman, who knows if its just one. What about the kids." John moved from his spot on his unmade bed to hide in the corner behind it. He heard his father's angry footsteps coming up the stairs and raised a hand to his eye, to protect the swollen, purple and blue flesh around it. The heavy, stomping footsteps trailed farther down the hall before his sister appeared in his room. There was a fresh, pink welt on her cheek that would soon match his eye, but he could tell that she dare not cry. 

"Johnny, pack a bag. I've already got mum's." The 7-year-old couldn't help but marvel at how grown up his sister, only five years his elder, was acting. John scrambled out of his corner to his closet where he had a knapsack already packed. 

"Harry what's wrong," he was trying so hard not to cry as he and his sister snuck down the stairs. 

"Father's been drinking again. We're going to stay at grandmum's." She handed her little brother hers and her mother's bags. "Go get in the car. I'll be out in a minute." She walked towards the kitchen where her mother could be heard sobbing. On his way out, John grabbed the keys to his mother's van, as well as a blue and black hoodie. 

The car sounded a loud beep when he hit the button to unlock it. He threw open the back of the car, tossed the three bags in carefully, and slammed the hatch shut. The sound of Harry soothing their mother became heard as he climbed into the passenger seat in the van. Harry and their mum reached the car and the 12-year-old helped her mother into the back seat. "John, keys," she said as she climbed into the driver's seat. He handed them over, knowing just how much trouble thy could all get in, but knowing just as well that they needed to leave.


	2. Why Won't They Stay?/Pamphlet

"Sherlock, please come down to the family room. Mum and dad are here, and they haven't seen you in months!" Mycroft stood outside his 10-year-old brother's bedroom door, his hand on the locked knob and his forehead leaned against the expensive wood. 

"No, they don't want to see me. They're never around." 

Mycroft sighed heavily. "For me, Sherlock? Don't make me deal with them alone." 

The door opened a crack. "Are they going to leave again?" 

"I don't know, Sherlock. I honestly don't know." The door closed again. 

"I won't come out." Sherlock leaned his back against the door and slid down to sit on the floor. He buried his face in his hands and failed at his attempt not to cry. He was so incredibly hurt that his parents never bothered to stay around long. And this, that they were most likely going to leave again, it killed him inside. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

John sat alone in their room at the shelter. His grandparents had died, and he, his sister, and their mum had been left on the streets. Harry and their mum were out trying to find jobs to put them in a house, but he was left alone at 13. It was their first Christmas in the shelter, today was, and John could have never been more unhappy. To try and get out of the room, John grabbed his old, ratty, torn up coat from the hook by the door and walked down the stairs, through the lobby, and outside. 

He walked and walked for hours before he was stopped on a street corner by a man in uniform. "Hey, son," he said warmly. "Have you ever thought about the army?" He had a pamphlet handed to him and he took it, thanking the man and giving him a small sort of smile before walking around the block and going back to the shelter.


	3. Painful Euphoria/Christmas in the Field

Sherlock sat in a back alley, leaned against a cold brick wall. His eyes were half lidded and he was cold. The shabby hooded sweatshirt and old, torn jeans weren't enough to keep him warm. He hated himself, wondering why he would destroy his life in such a way. Knowing that if he hadn't, he'd be home right now, sitting with his brother at a table with enough food to eat, and then some. Maybe this is why his parents avoided him, he thought. Maybe they knew that he was going to end up like this and they didn't want to be around to have to deal with it. They were smart people. The 17-year-old pulled a plastic bag out of the pocket of his hoodie. Inside were about 11 little pills, and he took three of them out, placed them on his tongue, and with a wince, swallowed them. He sighed deeply and leaned his head back against the wall as he slipped, once again, into a painful euphoria. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

"Nurse, I need the suture kit. STAT!" John shouted as he carefully dug a bullet out of someone's abdomen. He thanked the nurse who brought him the kit and got to work sterilizing the wound, then stitched it up. It was a simple procedure, really, but he hadn't slept in days. His hands were shaky and his head began to spin. "I'll be on standby, but I need a break," he informed one of the nurses. He'd pent 39 hours in constant surgery. 

He vaguely remembered that it was Christmas, but it didn't feel like it. Christmas was snow, and family, and banquets. This was dry, alone, and war-torn.


End file.
